The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4)

by Grace Callaway

  “That’s how my marriage would work,” Gabby said fiercely, “if I were given a chance to decide my own fate.”

  “Won’t your father allow you to choose your husband?” Vi asked.

  “He’ll consider my wishes, but he has his own ideas as well.”

  “Surely you would be the best judge of the husband you’d want,” Vi said reasonably. “You’re the one who has to live with the fellow after all—”

  A loud shatter startled her, drowning her out. She heard raised female voices coming from behind the closed door up ahead. For once, she wished she’d paid more attention during her lessons with Monsieur Le Roche. The argument was happening in rapid-fire French, and she couldn’t comprehend a thing.

  “What’s going on?” she said.

  Polly shook her head. “They’re talking too fast for me to—”

  The door flung open, and Josephine Ashe stormed out. She was still dressed in the clothes from her performance, angry color blotching her cheeks. She stopped short at the sight of them.

  “Miss Ashe.” Brow furrowed, Gabby said, “Is something amiss?”

  “It’s nothing—nothing at all.” Miss Ashe dropped a hasty curtsy. Ran a hand through her cropped blond locks. “I was just on my way.”

  “Oh. Well, of course. Don’t let us detain you—”

  Before Gabby finished speaking, the juggler was already halfway down the hall.

  “Crumpets.” Vi stared after Miss Ashe. “What was that about?”

  “As the English like to say, it was much ado about nothing.”

  Vi spun in the direction of the sultry, accented voice. Posed in the doorway, Madame Monique was draped in a flowing robe of pink chiffon, her dark coronet studded with pearl-tipped pins. “My visitors have arrived, I see.” She waved an imperious hand. “Come.”

  Polly slid Vi an uncertain glance.

  Vi wasn’t going to let some squabble get in the way of meeting her idol. Tugging Polly along, she led the way toward the acrobat’s suite. “Thank you for the invitation, Madame.”

  “I must be off. See you all at supper?” Gabby said.

  The diva inclined her head. “And if you could be so kind as to have a new looking glass delivered, Mademoiselle Billings? The current one has suffered a mishap.”

  As Violet followed Madame Monique into the suite, she thought mishap might be a euphemism. The looking glass above the vanity had been smashed to smithereens. The remnants of a broken vase mingled with shards of glass upon the vanity and surrounding carpet. A maid with a severe grey bun and weathered countenance was on her knees, cleaning up the mess.

  “Laisse, Jeanne,” Madame Monique chided. “I’ll send for someone to take care of it.”

  “It is no trouble, Madame—”

  “Have a care with your hands, yes? They are far too valuable to risk doing such work.” The acrobat’s tone was gentle yet firm.

  Jeanne rose stiffly. “As you wish, Madame. I shall prepare your toilette.” For an instant, she studied Vi and Polly with rheumy, shrewd eyes before shuffling off.

  Vi and Polly followed Madame Monique into the adjoining sitting room, which boasted a view of the gardens on the west side of the house. Dusk saturated the sky with red, purple, and orange. The lights of the stables winked in the distance.

  As soon as they were all seated, Vi blurted, “I’ve been following your performances since I was a girl, Madame Monique. It is the utmost honor to meet you.”

  “How kind, Miss Kent.” The Frenchwoman reposed as sinuously as a cat, curling her feet beneath her on the damask chaise. “Let us be friends. To you, I am Monique.”

  Madame Monique wants to be friends… with me?

  “Then I’m Violet, and this is Polly,” Vi said in a giddy rush.

  Polly shyly wriggled her fingers in greeting.

  Leaning forward, Vi said, “Your feats, Monique—they are incomparable! I have so many questions I want to ask you. How do you keep your balance standing on one leg on a moving horse? I’ve practiced and practiced and whilst I can stand, the instant I try to lift the other leg—”

  “Pardon.” Monique’s brows arched. “Am I to understand that you were attempting acrobatics?”

  “Yes—though not in London, of course,” Vi said hastily. “Back in Chudleigh Crest, the village where I grew up, there was an open field behind our cottage. I’d just put on my trousers and—”

  “Your trousers?”

  “Well, not mine, really. I filched them from my brother Harry. The point is,” Vi said, “I practiced and practiced but could never sustain a one-legged pose for more than a second.”

  The Frenchwoman stared at her. “You are an unusual miss, are you not? Quite the ingénue. I see now why you are so popular with the gentlemen.”

  Something about the other’s scrutiny made Vi uncomfortable. “But I’m not—popular, that is.”

  “There’s no need to play the coquette with me, chérie. I saw you at the performance this afternoon. Surrounded by a herd of young bucks,” Monique said in light tones, “and sitting next to a handsome young Adonis.”

  “You mean Wick? He’s a chum,” Vi said quickly, “as are the others.”

  After a pause, the acrobat gave a laugh as floaty as her leaps. “How delightfully modern you are. A woman after my own heart.”

  The awkward feeling ebbed from Vi, pleasure thrumming in its place. The heroine of her childhood had complimented her on being modern and thought they were similar? Outstanding.

  “Now you were asking about balance,” Monique said.

  “Yes?” Vi was poised at the edge of her seat.

  “The secret, my dear, is to trust one’s natural instincts. Those who fear to let go end up falling. To succeed, do not fight the moment, but rather,”—the diva flicked her fingers—“reap its glorious uncertainty.”

  Vi tried to make sense of the advice. “You mean I shouldn’t be afraid of falling?”

  “Fear leads to failure. To conquer fear, one must lean into it, laugh in its face. One must be bold, remorseless, willing to take any risk when it comes to art and life. Alors, you wish to know the secret to success?”

  Vi nodded fervently.

  “Don’t be fooled by love. Trust no one but yourself, and let nothing stand in your way.” A feverish glow lit Monique’s eyes. Although she was looking at Violet, her gaze seemed focused on something only she could see. “Be La Belle Dame sans Merci.”

  A shiver coursed down Vi’s spine. As much as she admired Monique, the other’s philosophy seemed a bit… ruthless. Then again, she told herself, if one’s job was to jump through a ring of fire day in and day out, such an unflinching attitude was probably necessary.

  “Do you have, um, any specific pointers?” she asked. “When it comes to technique, I mean?”

  Monique’s attention snapped back to her. “Lean into gravity’s pull rather than away from it. Use your arms for balance.” The Frenchwoman’s tone was crisp. “And train your horse so that you ride as one, each compensating for the other. I practice riding blindfolded.”

  “Blindfolded? Now why didn’t I think of that?” Thoroughly impressed, Vi said, “I shall try that at the first opportunity—”

  Jeanne’s voice came from the doorway, a diffident murmur of French.

  “I am being summoned.” Monique rose in a graceful swirl of pink chiffon. “Please excuse me.”

  Vi hopped up, as did Polly.

  “Thank you for your time,” Vi said gratefully, “and for your excellent advice.”

  “Tout le plaisir était pour moi.” Monique’s lips curled up at the corners. “I look forward to furthering our acquaintance over supper, ma chère. A performer must know her audience, after all.”

  Chapter Nine

  The pungent odor tickled Richard’s nose, and, before he could stop it, he sneezed.

  For the third bloody time.

  “Bless you. Er, again.” Seated to his left at the head of the table, Miss Billings paused in her monologue about bonnets l
ong enough to remark, “I hope you haven’t contracted an ailment, my lord?”

  “I’m fine.” Or I would be—if someone wasn’t wearing that blasted perfume. He didn’t know where the noxious scent was coming from, but every now and again, it wafted over to him, irritating his nostrils. “Thank you for your concern,” he said curtly.

  His hostess launched into chatter again. About gloves this time. Egad.

  Suppressing a sigh, he listened with half an ear. He’d been on edge all evening, and one reason for his disquiet was sitting directly across the table. Miss Kent was acting as if he didn’t exist. When he’d tried to approach her in the drawing room before supper, she’d been as slippery as a lamprey, wriggling her way through the guests, eluding him at every turn. At present, she was polishing off her fish course with gusto, and he’d have found her hearty appetite endearing if she wasn’t simultaneously presenting him with a cold shoulder.

  That said shoulder was left bare did not improve his mood. The neckline of her daffodil satin frock invited far too much attention, and he had to quell the urge to rip off his jacket and throw it over her. His grip tightened on his knife as Goggston, sitting to her left, snuck yet another look at the exposed swells of her bosom. Richard wanted to strangle the prat… even if he couldn’t precisely blame him.

  Because it was taking all of Richard’s willpower not to join in the ogling like some randy schoolboy. His only excuse was that he knew first-hand how soft and firm those breasts were, how perfectly they’d fit in his palms. His skin slickened beneath his cravat; he tried not to think about how her nipples had budded so sweetly at his touch, not to wonder at their color, if they were the same berry pink as her lips…

  Her eyes suddenly met his. The impact of that tawny gaze was like a blow to the gut during a practice round at Gentleman Jackson’s. Her throat rippled, and she quickly looked away.

  He became aware of the hot, thick throbbing in his groin, and he wanted to groan in frustration. God’s wounds, what was the matter with him? Why did one look from the little baggage affect him this way? He didn’t have time for this nonsense; he had more pressing concerns.

  He looked around the dining hall, its dark paneled walls hung with portraits of the aristocracy. Billings had undoubtedly purchased some impoverished peer’s ancestors to decorate his house, and now they looked down their noble noses at the motley guests supping at banquet tables set with gleaming silverware and hothouse arrangements. A quick survey revealed that Wickham still hadn’t shown. Richard had no idea where his sibling was—but he had a good idea why the other had absented himself.

  Richard looked to the foot of his table. Billings occupied the end seat, the Duchess of Strathaven to his right. But it was the man across from her, dark-haired and ruthlessly elegant, who held Richard’s attention.

  What is that bastard doing here?

  Turning to Miss Billings, he said, “Are you acquainted with the man talking to your father?”

  “Mr. Garrity, you mean?” she replied without missing a beat. “Actually, I only met him today. He wasn’t precisely invited, you see, but he is one of Father’s business associates, and Father says we must do everything to make his visit a pleasant one.”

  “What does Mr. Garrity do, precisely?” This came from Miss Kent, whose brow was furrowed.

  “He supplies funds to those in need,” Miss Billings said guilelessly. “Father says he’s an important man.”

  Billings wasn’t wrong. Garrity was one of the most powerful cutthroats in London. He’d built a thriving empire from moneylending at an outrageous margin. Any sod stupid enough to take a loan from Garrity was putting his neck on a bloody chopping block.

  God’s blood, why were you so stupid, Wick?

  A footman placed the next dish in front of him, and Richard sliced his roulade de boeuf with a savage stroke, guts of asparagus and leek spilling out against the Sèvres china. He told himself Wick still had three months to pay off the debt. As dangerous as Garrity was, the moneylender was known to be a man of his word. He wouldn’t come after Wick… yet.

  “Has anyone seen Mr. Murray?” Miss Kent ventured.

  The worry in her voice made Richard wonder if she knew about Wick’s connection to Garrity. He shook his head, answered gruffly, “Not since this afternoon.”

  “Maybe the old boy’s taking a nap and slept through supper.” Goggs slurped at his wine.

  “When have you known our Wick to nap?” The scoffing reply came from Parnell, sitting two chairs down from Richard. They were separated by Mrs. Sumner, an auburn-haired, voluptuous widow whose crimson dress left little to the imagination.

  “Once he and I wagered on who could stay up the longest,” Parnell continued, his pale features smirking, “and Wick managed to go three days and nights without sleep.”

  As if Wick wasn’t addled enough, he had a friend who encouraged sleep deprivation. Just bloody perfect.

  “A fellow with staying power, eh? Mr. Murray sounds like someone I’d like to get to know better.” Mrs. Sumner’s blackened lashes lowered in a roguish wink.

  Why was his brother such a damned magnet for trouble? Gritting his teeth, Richard prepared to reply, but Miss Kent beat him to it.

  “Mr. Murray is very busy these days,” she said primly. “He has to think of his future.”

  Mrs. Sumner’s plucked brows shot up. “You speak for him, Miss Kent?”

  “As a friend, I do.”

  Her steady reply ignited a sudden, unpalatable sensation in Richard. It took him a moment to recognize the feeling as… jealousy. Of his own brother? The possibility flummoxed him. All his life, he’d looked after Wick—would give the other the shirt off his own back if necessary. Yet Miss Kent’s loyalty and concern made his chest constrict with a contemptible emotion.

  Longing. For something that would never be his.

  Blocking out the unacceptable thoughts, he turned to Mrs. Sumner. “As Mr. Murray’s brother, I can assure you that his plate is presently full. He has no time for diversions.”

  “Pity.” The widow’s gaze roved over him. Then she leaned forward, giving him an unobstructed view of her twin assets. “Tell me, my lord,” she cooed, “does stamina run in the family?”

  His neck heated. How the hell was he supposed to respond to that? This was one of the many reasons he loathed flirtation. He’d never had a talent for navigating the labyrinth of hidden meanings and innuendo. He preferred honesty and straight dealing. When Lucinda Belton had laughingly declared, “I’ve never met a man as direct as you, Carlisle—why, you’re as blunt as a mallet,” she hadn’t been wrong.

  As he struggled to come up with an acceptable reply, Miss Kent spoke up.

  “It seems you’ve fallen into your dish, Mrs. Sumner,” she said with studied candor.

  He saw that the widow’s bodice was indeed soaking up the sauce from her plate. Straightening, Mrs. Sumner reached for her napkin and rubbed at the greasy spot on her bosom—slowly, her fingertip tracing a suggestive circle. She winked at him.

  By Jove. Appalled, he looked away.

  The widow said casually, “How kind of you to notice, Miss Kent.”

  “Rather difficult not to,” Miss Kent said.

  Her disgruntled tone lifted Richard’s spirits.

  Abruptly, she turned her attention to the acrobat seated on the other side of Goggston. “Monique, I’d love to hear more about the secrets behind your performances. And yours as well, Mr. Burns,” she added.

  Next to Parnell, Cedric Burns flashed white teeth that sparkled against his tanned complexion. “I haven’t any secrets, m’dear. What you see on the stage is purely the result of practice and skill.”

  Monique reached for her goblet of wine, smirking. Richard thought that her beauty was like beveled glass: it had a hard, polished edge. Unlike Miss Kent, whose fresh prettiness owed nothing to artifice, the acrobat honed her charms with rouge and paint.

  “Pure fustian, Monsieur Burns. The Great Nicoletti claims the same thing,” she sai
d, “yet he cuts his assistant in half with a saw and then puts her back together again. Tell me, what sort of practice makes such a feat possible?” Her smile was derisive. “Every great performer has secrets.”

  “If you don’t care to share the tricks of your trade, Burns, just say so,” Parnell drawled.

  “Hard work is the trick,” Burns protested. “My partner and I practice for hours each day.”

  “Where is the lovely Miss Ashe, wot?” Wormleigh said from halfway down the table. As usual, the aging dandy appeared foxed, his jowls ruddy above the elaborate folds of his cravat.

  “She developed a megrim. Sends her regrets,” Burns said.

  “Too bad. Never met a gel who could handle fire.” Wormleigh leered. “Would like to know her secrets, wot.”

  “A woman must guard her secrets as closely as her jewels.” Monique raised her glass to her rouged lips. “They are her most valuable commodity.”

  “What if she doesn’t have any secrets?” Miss Billings piped up.

  “Then she has no choice but to rely on her jewels.” Smirking, Parnell said, “Stunning necklace, by the by.”

  Miss Billings beamed. “You’re ever so kind, my lord. It’s a French heirloom.”

  By Richard’s reckoning, Parnell hadn’t given her a compliment but an underhanded barb. And while Richard, himself, found some of Miss Billings’ habits annoying, she was, in general, an artless, well-meaning sort of female. She did not deserve to be publicly insulted—and in front of guests who were, at that very moment, dining on her generosity.

  “You look lovely, Miss Billings,” Richard said brusquely. “With or without the jewels.”

  His hostess blinked, her jaw slackening.

  “I agree, Gabby,” Miss Kent declared. “You look marvelous.”

  She glanced at him—her tawny eyes surprised and… approving? Warmth spread through his chest like sunshine.

  The others launched into superlatives about Miss Billings’ jewelry. Richard was no connoisseur of gewgaws, but even he could guess that her necklace must have cost a king’s ransom. Deeply hued sapphires, each the size of a thumbnail, were set in a web of icy, glittering diamonds.